which escaped from beneath his white powdered wig and bright blue eyes which looked at her now with amusement and, she fancied, sympathy. He was a threat to the success of their evening, but nonetheless she found herself wanting to know more about him.
He offered her his arm again. ‘Will you grant your unfortunate cousin the honour of just one dance?’
Clementine hesitated for a moment then smiled and nodded. ‘Of course.’ She put her hand on his arm and cast one last regretful look back over her shoulder at the pretty little verandah as they returned to the crowded, fetid ballroom. The elaborate pomaded and powdered hair coiffures of the ladies were beginning to slump and unravel now while their carefully applied face paint and powder was starting to rub off in the heat, leaving pink, shiny patches on their noses and chins. Worse still, the air of the ballroom was thick with the heady, nauseating smell of cologne mingled with sweat.
They danced in silence, much to Clementine’s relief as she dreaded saying the wrong thing or forgetting her meagre French. He didn’t seem to mind how quiet she was though and instead contented himself by smiling across at her as they faced each other across the set and giving her fingers the occasional warm squeeze with his own.
Afterwards, he led her back to Venetia, who watched them both from the side of the dance floor with mingled amusement and concern. ‘I have been very much enjoying the company of my little cousin, Mademoiselle Wrotham’ he said in English with a low bow. ‘She has grown quite charming since the last time that I beheld her.’ He turned to Clementine with a blandly innocent smile. ‘I am seeing your mother next week, Mademoiselle Violette, and can hardly wait to tell her how enchanting you looked this evening.’
Clementine’s heart ran cold but before she could muster the wits to make a proper reply, he had bowed again, turned on his red glossy heel and walked away. ‘My goodness, Venetia! Who is that man?’ she demanded, her cheeks turning crimson with horror and shame under her heavy rouge as she watched him walk off then pause to speak to a pretty girl in a rose pink silk dress, who looked back over her pale shoulder at Clementine and laughed as he bent to whisper in her ear.
Venetia laughed and unfurled her ostrich feather fan. ‘That’s Jules’ cousin, Antoine. He’s very handsome underneath that mask, you know.’ She discreetly pointed with her fan. ‘Do look, Clementine! There’s the Duchess of Devonshire! How pretty she is in that pale yellow dress! And just look at how she has done her hair! How old is she now? Thirty? She doesn’t look it at all.’
‘Never mind the Duchess!’ Clementine exclaimed impatiently. ‘I think Antoine knows that we are all frauds! Oh, what shall we do? If he tells someone, we are all undone and will never been invited anywhere again!’
‘Do?’ Venetia laughed again. ‘My dear, we shall do nothing at all! Jules and Antoine are the best of friends and from what I know of him, he probably thinks it is all the most delightful joke.’ She gave Clementine a sidelong look as she continued to stare at Eugène and the pretty girl in pink, who were still talking, while surrounded by a swirl of dancers. ‘She is his sister,’ she said with a smile. ‘So you can stop glaring at them both.’
Clementine flushed beneath her mask. ‘I wasn’t glaring,’ she protested before conceding a smile. ‘Much.’
Chapter Nine
Venetia and Jules were married at the fashionable church of St George’s on Hanover Square on a sunny August morning that caused the stained glass windows that lined the church’s walls to blaze with a fury of light and colour that tumbled like a broken rainbow on to the stone pavings on the floor. It was a beautiful ceremony, with the bride looking suitably gorgeous in a flounced cream silk dress, patterned all over with flowers and with a wide blue velvet sash around her now
He offered her his arm again. ‘Will you grant your unfortunate cousin the honour of just one dance?’
Clementine hesitated for a moment then smiled and nodded. ‘Of course.’ She put her hand on his arm and cast one last regretful look back over her shoulder at the pretty little verandah as they returned to the crowded, fetid ballroom. The elaborate pomaded and powdered hair coiffures of the ladies were beginning to slump and unravel now while their carefully applied face paint and powder was starting to rub off in the heat, leaving pink, shiny patches on their noses and chins. Worse still, the air of the ballroom was thick with the heady, nauseating smell of cologne mingled with sweat.
They danced in silence, much to Clementine’s relief as she dreaded saying the wrong thing or forgetting her meagre French. He didn’t seem to mind how quiet she was though and instead contented himself by smiling across at her as they faced each other across the set and giving her fingers the occasional warm squeeze with his own.
Afterwards, he led her back to Venetia, who watched them both from the side of the dance floor with mingled amusement and concern. ‘I have been very much enjoying the company of my little cousin, Mademoiselle Wrotham’ he said in English with a low bow. ‘She has grown quite charming since the last time that I beheld her.’ He turned to Clementine with a blandly innocent smile. ‘I am seeing your mother next week, Mademoiselle Violette, and can hardly wait to tell her how enchanting you looked this evening.’
Clementine’s heart ran cold but before she could muster the wits to make a proper reply, he had bowed again, turned on his red glossy heel and walked away. ‘My goodness, Venetia! Who is that man?’ she demanded, her cheeks turning crimson with horror and shame under her heavy rouge as she watched him walk off then pause to speak to a pretty girl in a rose pink silk dress, who looked back over her pale shoulder at Clementine and laughed as he bent to whisper in her ear.
Venetia laughed and unfurled her ostrich feather fan. ‘That’s Jules’ cousin, Antoine. He’s very handsome underneath that mask, you know.’ She discreetly pointed with her fan. ‘Do look, Clementine! There’s the Duchess of Devonshire! How pretty she is in that pale yellow dress! And just look at how she has done her hair! How old is she now? Thirty? She doesn’t look it at all.’
‘Never mind the Duchess!’ Clementine exclaimed impatiently. ‘I think Antoine knows that we are all frauds! Oh, what shall we do? If he tells someone, we are all undone and will never been invited anywhere again!’
‘Do?’ Venetia laughed again. ‘My dear, we shall do nothing at all! Jules and Antoine are the best of friends and from what I know of him, he probably thinks it is all the most delightful joke.’ She gave Clementine a sidelong look as she continued to stare at Eugène and the pretty girl in pink, who were still talking, while surrounded by a swirl of dancers. ‘She is his sister,’ she said with a smile. ‘So you can stop glaring at them both.’
Clementine flushed beneath her mask. ‘I wasn’t glaring,’ she protested before conceding a smile. ‘Much.’
Chapter Nine
Venetia and Jules were married at the fashionable church of St George’s on Hanover Square on a sunny August morning that caused the stained glass windows that lined the church’s walls to blaze with a fury of light and colour that tumbled like a broken rainbow on to the stone pavings on the floor. It was a beautiful ceremony, with the bride looking suitably gorgeous in a flounced cream silk dress, patterned all over with flowers and with a wide blue velvet sash around her now
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